Arianne had discovered, somewhere around the fourth journal, that her mother’s writing wasn’t organized by year.
The first three volumes had followed a rough chronology—before marriage, pregnancy, the devastating aftermath of Arianne’s birth. But after that, Ysabella had written whenever she could, filling pages as the mood struck her, sometimes daily, sometimes with gaps of weeks between entries. Once Arianne reached the age of seven, the entries became more frequent. Her mother had written almost every day, filling one journal after another with observations, fears, hopes, and the small, precious details of her daughter’s life.
Arianne had been reading to fill the hours. At twenty-eight weeks pregnant, time had become a strange, elastic thing. The days stretched out before her, empty of the work that had once defined her existence. Gio had started bringing her paperwork, quarterly summaries, contract reviews, documents that required her signature, but she could finish them in an hour. Franz refused to give her more whenever she asked. He would shake his head and tell her to rest, and she would glare at him, and he would pretend not to notice.
She had never been away from work for this long. Not since she was thirteen years old and had taken over her father’s company. Her identity had been built on being capable, efficient, essential. Now she was sitting in bed at two in the afternoon, reading her dead mother’s journals because there was nothing else to do.
The twins were visiting Amanda and Vincent for the weekend, leaving the estate empty. Arianne had spent the morning with them before they left, helping Lily pack her overnight bag and reminding Leo that his grandparents’ house was not a suitable place to practice his flying kicks. Then the car had pulled away, and the house had fallen silent, and Arianne had retreated to Franz’s bedroom with the eighth journal in her hand.
She had been in his bed for two hours now, propped against the pillows, the air conditioning running at full blast. The constant warmth that had plagued her since the twentieth week of her pregnancy showed no signs of abating. She had the thermostat set to a temperature that would have been unbearable six months ago, and she was considering removing another layer of clothing.
Franz had adapted to this new climate with the patient forbearance of a man who had waited twenty years for his wife and was not about to complain about a little cold. He now slept in thick sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, sometimes adding a second blanket on his side of the bed. Arianne had once asked if she should move back to her own room, where she could control the temperature without freezing him out of existence.
"No," he had said, without hesitation.
"It would be more comfortable for you."
"I don’t care about comfortable. I care about you."
"That’s very romantic, but you’re shivering."
"I’m not shivering. I’m vibrating with love."
She had dropped the subject. He had bought thicker pajamas. The matter was settled.
Now Franz entered the bedroom, carrying a glass of water. He set it on the nightstand beside her and sat on the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress. He was wearing a heavy sweater over his shirt, which meant the air conditioning was performing exactly as Arianne intended.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
"My mother’s eighth journal."
"Eighth. You’ve been busy."
"I’ve been bored. There’s a difference." She turned a page. "I didn’t know she was such a dedicated writer. She wrote down everything. Every milestone. Every event. Every small, ordinary moment. I thought she didn’t care about me, but she was recording my entire childhood."
"What kinds of things did she write?"
"My first words. My first steps. The first time I read a book on my own. The first time I played a full piece on the piano without making a mistake." Arianne’s voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—a quiet wonder that hadn’t faded since she’d started reading. "She wrote about the way I used to line up my toys in order of size. She thought it was funny. She said I was organized even as a toddler."
"You were always organized."
"I was three years old and I was organizing my stuffed animals by height. That’s not normal."
"It’s very normal. For you."
Arianne didn’t argue. She turned another page, her eyes scanning the elegant handwriting. "She wrote about my seventh birthday. She made me a cake herself—chocolate, with strawberries. She said I told her it was the best cake I’d ever eaten. She cried afterward, alone in the kitchen. She was so happy that she’d done something right."
Franz sat without speaking. "Have you found what you were looking for?"
"What do you mean?"
"The answer. The question you’ve been carrying. Why she said what she said. Why she pushed you away. Have you found it?"
Arianne closed the journal, her finger marking her place. "Not yet. I understand her better now. I understand that she was struggling with something I couldn’t see. She loved me—I know that now. She loved me in whatever way she was capable of. But I still don’t understand why she would say those words to me at the end. ’This is all your fault.’ I was thirteen years old. What could I possibly have done?"
"Nothing," Franz said. "You were a child."
"Then why did she say it?"
He didn’t have an answer. Neither did she.
She set the journal aside and turned on the bed, adjusting the pillows behind her back. The baby moved inside her, a slow, stretching sensation, as if he was also trying to get comfortable. "I’ve been thinking about my father," she said.
"Have you?"
"Not the way I’ve been thinking about my mother. I don’t need to understand him. I already do." She looked at Franz. "He chose me as his successor because he saw something in me that he could use. Intelligence. Drive. The same qualities he valued in himself. It didn’t matter that I was a daughter instead of a son. It didn’t matter that he had other children. I was the most capable, so I was the one he chose."
"You were his legitimate child."
"That didn’t matter to him. In the Summers family, value is based on skills and talent, not bloodline. It’s the same reason Rafael was acknowledged by our grandfather. He was intelligent. Promising. The family saw potential in him, even if Stuart refused to claim him."
"Stuart denied he was his son?"
"Yes. He and Rafael never had a good relationship. Stuart wanted nothing to do with him. But our grandfather saw Rafael’s potential and brought him into the family anyway." She paused. "I don’t know how. Even when I took over Summers Corporation, Rafael kept his distance. I was actually surprised he didn’t actively oppose me as the next successor. He had every reason to."
Franz was silent, his brow furrowed. "I met him once," he said.
Arianne looked at him. "When?"
"Years ago. Before you came back to Montclair. Alex and I were at a convention, one of those industry events where everyone pretends to like each other. Rafael was there. Someone introduced him to us."
"What did you think of him?"
"He’s hard to read. He doesn’t present himself the way the rest of your family does. He was polite, but there was something underneath it. Something guarded. Controlled." Franz paused, searching for the right word. "He was like a lone wolf. Watching everyone from a distance. Never quite part of the pack."
"That matches my memory of him. When we were children, he was always on the outside. Watching. Waiting. He never tried to be part of the family, but he never left either."
"I didn’t know what to make of him then. I still don’t." Franz’s voice was thoughtful, troubled. "When you mentioned him at the last meeting—when Nate told us he owned the restaurant chain—I started thinking about that convention. About the way he looked at Alex."
"How did he look at Alex?"
"Like he was measuring him. Calculating something. I didn’t think much of it at the time—Alex was the CEO of Rochefort Group, people were always measuring him. But now—" He stopped. Shook his head. "It’s probably nothing. I don’t want to make assumptions based on a single meeting years ago."
"But something about him bothers you."
"Yes." Franz met her eyes. "Something about him bothers me. I can’t point to a specific thing he said or did. But the feeling is there. And I’ve learned to trust my feelings when it comes to your family."
Arianne was silent. Outside the window, the autumn wind stirred the trees. The air conditioning hummed in the corner.
"I should talk to him," she said. "Eventually. He’s been keeping his distance for years, but if he’s connected to the restaurant chain—if he’s connected to Howard Brennan in any way—I need to know."
"Not yet. You’re twenty-eight weeks pregnant. You’re not confronting anyone until after the baby is born."
"I wasn’t planning to confront him. I was planning to have a conversation."
"With a man who might be connected to the person who killed your brother-in-law and sister-in-law."
"Alex and Layla were your brother and sister-in-law too."
"That’s not the point. The point is you’re not doing anything dangerous until the baby is here and you’ve recovered."
Arianne looked at him. His jaw was set, his shoulders tense. He was worried. She read it in the way he held himself, the way his hands were gripping his knees. He had been worried for months, since the collapse, since the hospital, since the moment he learned she was pregnant.
"I’m not going to do anything dangerous," she said. "I’m just going to read my mother’s journals and try to understand the past. The rest can wait."
Franz exhaled. His hands relaxed on his knees. "Good."
"But when the baby is born—"
"We’ll talk about it then."
"That’s not a promise."
"It’s a postponement. I’ll take it."
She shook her head, but she didn’t argue. She reached for the journal again, opening it to the page she had marked. Franz stayed where he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoulder brushing hers.
The eighth journal, her mother’s record of the years when Arianne was seven, eight, nine years old, the years when she was learning piano and winning academic competitions and beginning to understand that her family was not like other families. Ysabella had recorded all of it. Every achievement. Every moment of pride. Every fear she couldn’t voice aloud.
Arianne was beginning to understand her mother. She was beginning to understand the fear that had shaped Ysabella’s entire life. But she didn’t understand the ending. The last words. The accusation that had echoed in her mind for twenty-three years.
This is all your fault.
She would keep reading. There were six more journals after this one. Six more years of her mother’s thoughts. The answer was in there somewhere. She just hadn’t found it yet.